Assembly

I struck a pair of pencil lines on the workbench to keep the dowels properly squared during assembly, and clamped a fence along the bench’s edge to maintain order. The dowels were then epoxied into their respective connectors; after that, the verticals were temporarily seated in the feet, allowing the entire arrangement to be aligned with the aforementioned pencil lines.

A sheet of paper was wisely interposed to prevent the contraption from becoming a permanent fixture of the bench—a fate epoxy is all too happy to encourage. Clamps were applied, decorously but firmly, until the adhesive surrendered and cured.

The arrangement performed flawlessly; every component emerged impeccably, almost austerely, square.

To secure the legs, I merely clamped them against the temporary fence, verified that all was in obedient alignment, and epoxied the rack into position. The orphaned second holes in the legs were then addressed in the oldest of ways: I whittled small wooden plugs to fill them, a solution as inelegant as it is entirely sufficient.

Once the epoxy had set beyond argument, I took up a flush-trim saw and dispatched the excess with the sort of tidy finality that always feels faintly ceremonial.

I did, admittedly, overlook the patch of blue paint lingering inside the hole, but given that we are not in the realm of haute furniture, I am prepared to let this particular imperfection live out its quiet little life unchallenged.

A few judicious passes with the hand plane, and the whole affair was rendered smooth and respectable. Good enough, I should think.

This is how I laid out the peg holes on the horizontal dowel. I began by marking the spacing, then secured the dowel in the vise. My combination square was set so that it registered both against the flank of the dowel and its modest little ‘peak,’ allowing me to carry a clean, reliable line down the exposed length.

To mark the remainder, I simply repositioned the dowel in the vise using the same square as my guide. Quick, efficient, and—dare I say—almost elegant.

I then drilled the holes halfway through the dowel, stopping before I emerged on the far side. The pegs themselves were fashioned from popsicle sticks—an ignoble origin, perhaps, but once cut in half and trimmed to length, they proved unexpectedly serviceable.

After rounding the ends, I added a modest dab of glue to each hole. With a quick-release clamp I pressed the pegs home, pausing to ensure they formed a reasonably uniform procession. A few of the holes had wandered off course—an impromptu, free-hand misadventure at the drill press. Ah well. One lives, one learns, and the wood seldom files a complaint.

A bit of sanding and a few coats of shellac later, and the thing declared itself finished. A job, as the saying goes, decidedly well done.

The attentive reader will no doubt observe that the chronology presented here bears only a passing resemblance to the sequence implied by the illustrations. I can only hope that a modest indulgence in artistic license will be graciously overlooked.

Not, perhaps, ninety percent perfect—but more than adequate for its intended purpose, and unlikely to provoke any serious complaints from the universe.

Stocked with necklaces and prepared for the Christmas market, I can only trust that prospective shoppers will find them, if not irresistible, at least tolerably fit for the role of modest handmade gifts.

I also fashioned a rather different display stand for my wife. The lower rack is height-adjustable, allowing it to accommodate the eclectic array of items she produces. I even bent a set of metal hooks from TIG welding rods which, when paired with a length of string, permit her to suspend her wares in two orderly rows. A simple contrivance, but surprisingly effective.

It is, I confess, astonishing how a project of such trivial dimensions can yield such disproportionate satisfaction. Not because the craftsmanship aspires to any particular refinement—its ambitions are, after all, stoutly utilitarian—but because I required a Thing™, and so I made one. And should my tentative foray into the ornamental arts fail to secure its intended foothold in the seasonal bazaar, the display stand will hardly languish in obscurity; my wife will undoubtedly press it into service for her considerably more prosperous ventures. The woman moves her needle-felt creations with the ease and velocity of hot buns departing a bakery shelf.

I take no small pride in her success.

A final image of the two display stands, now bearing the fruits of our combined industry—necklaces, ornaments, and other small contrivances arranged with as much dignity as their modest origins permit. They sit ready to embark upon their seasonal destinies: to become stocking-stuffers, thoughtful gifts, or small gestures of affectionate regard from customers we have yet to meet.

There is something rather pleasing in the sight of it all—two humble constructions, conceived in practicality, now presiding over a little congress of handmade offerings, each waiting patiently for the right pair of hands to carry it home.

And so, with these modest constructions completed and set upon their seasonal duties, our thoughts turn inevitably to the larger wonders that approach. Christmas has a way of summoning anticipation even from those of us who long ago ceased to be children—an expectant hush that gathers as we prepare to celebrate the birth of our Lord.

Soon our daughters will join in the pleasant conspiracies of the season: baking, crafting gifts, festooning the house with small enchantments of their own devising. And then comes the evening we wait for—the soft unveiling of it all over good food, a glittering tree, familiar carols, the quiet pleasure of unwrapping gifts, and the fellowship of those we love.

If such moments are the destiny of every reader who finds their way to these pages, then this little blog has not been in vain. I wish each and every one of you a most blessed and merry Christmas.